


Make Mine an Irish

by AnonEhouse



Series: Tiny Tony 'verse [15]
Category: Iron Man (Comic), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daddy Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/AnonEhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony will be eighteen. Tony is fine, just fine, never been better, so long as the whiskey holds out. Tony doesn't have to prove anything to anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Mine an Irish

**Author's Note:**

> Tony will be 18 *after* this story, this takes place only a few weeks after [Crash and Burn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/369813) when he was 17.

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

"I'm sorry, sir, but as a US based company, regulations won't allow us to serve liquor to passengers under the age of twenty-one."

Tony frowns and taps his fingers against the tiny tray in front of him. He's very disappointed, first class should mean no harassment, and he really needs a Scotch. "Look, I'm growing a beard, a real one, you can pull on it if you like, to prove I'm not a child. This is a long, long, boring flight, so taking relativity into account, I'll be well over twenty-one by the time we arrive in London, where I've heard the legal drinking age is eighteen, so this is a petty bureaucratic point, isn't it?" Maybe Tony should be more diplomatic, but he really _needs_ a drink.

"I'm very sorry, sir." The stewardess is frosty plastic perfection. Tony vows that when he gets his own plane the stewardesses will be human, by God, and know how to have fun.

Tony's seat mate leans past him and waves a ten dollar bill at the stewardess. "I'll have a gin and tonic, and a Scotch on the rocks."

The stewardess goes all businesslike, produces the drinks and pulls the cart back to the next passengers. The man nudges the Scotch towards Tony. "Hate to see a man dying of thirst."

Tony grins and accepts the drink. "Thanks." He downs half of it in several gulps. "Let me pay you back."

"Sure, you can buy the next round."

***

They arrive at Heathrow. Tony slips on a pair of sunglasses, collects his bag from the overhead bin, and bids farewell to his seat mate. He does not say goodbye to the stewardesses. He dutifully stands in the line to be cleared as harmless to the safety of the realm, and not likely to become a burden on society. His bag contains a few good shirts, underwear, socks, and some of his favorite tools. The inspector looks a bit perturbed by that, but when Tony displays a sheaf of traveler's checks and explains that he prefers to travel light, he's permitted entry.

Tony climbs into the first taxi in the rank. 

"Where to, sir?"

For a moment, Tony is homesick. The driver sounds so much like Jarvis. Tony clears his throat. "A pub. One that isn't overly picky about a man's age." Dad had been in London during 'The War' as he put it, but he'd never given Tony any specifics, and it's not as if he's got any intention of tracing his father's footsteps. No, he's not following in his father's footsteps. He just wants to drink somewhere he can stretch his legs before he decides where he's going to go next. He can go anywhere. He's got enough money, nothing holding him back. He can see the whole damn world if he wants.

***

The pub turns out to be quite nice, all dark wood and cheerful company and no one particularly nosy about his age. Tony plays darts and chats up the barmaids and stands a few rounds for everyone. What with passing through so many time zones, Tony is either way ahead of everyone, or way behind them, so he's a little lightheaded. "There's something in airplane air," he explains to the red-headed barmaid. "That's why I'm not quite steady on my feet. Upsets the inner ear. You need to swallow a lot to fix it." She nods and fills his glass again. Lovely people, so friendly. He really likes this bar. Pub. Whatever.

There's no sense in finding a hotel room to sleep to reset his internal clock. He'll just drink until he passes out. In the last few weeks he's found that works really well for him.

"Time, gentlemen, time!"

Tony looks up, and then looks at his watch. "I'm still on New York time. Is that any help?"

"The pub is closing, sir."

"Closing? It's not late, is it?" Tony semi-distinctly remembers sunset a while back. Quite a while, but still, can't be all that late.

"Eleven P.M. closing, ducks," the red-headed barmaid says. She pats him on the arm. "It's the law."

Tony is horrified. He pulls a thick little guidebook of Useful Phrases and Customs for European countries from his back pocket and locates the page for the United Kingdom. "My God, you're right." He peers at the page more closely. "It says Ireland has less restrictive licensing laws." He slaps the book shut and shoves it into his back pocket. "How do I get to Ireland?"

***

Tony sleeps on the train, his feet up on his bag, his BritRail Pass+ Ireland sticking out of his jacket pocket so the conductor won't bother him. When he wakes, he washes up in the nearest bathroom and decides he'll get off at the next station to buy a toothbrush.

When he gets off, it's at a station that's so small it's more like a shed. It's a very nice, neat shed, freshly painted, and with baskets of flowers, he admits. He looks around. There's a single street, with shops along either side and a lot of open green space divided randomly by low stone walls. The grass is aggressively green, and the sky emphatically blue. This is probably Ireland. He puts his sunglasses on and watches a dog and a man herd a bunch of white sheep with black faces across the narrow road in front of him. Bunch. Flock? Sheep are flocks. Tony wonders why, they're nothing like birds. 

He finds a shop, and after some persuasion manages to cash his smallest traveler's check. They haven't enough cash on hand, so he accepts store credit. He gets his toothbrush, toothpaste, and a thick, cabled cream-colored pullover that smells not unpleasantly of sheep. He exchanges his rumpled jacket for the pullover and goes looking for the pub. There had better be one, or he's going to be terribly disappointed in Ireland.

***

"No, Butterfingers, the right... _my_ right." Tony mutters and rolls over. The bed is very itchy, and Butterfingers refuses to scratch in the right place.

"Is it the little people you're talking to, now?"

Tony opens his eyes. There's a woman looking up into his face. "Maybe. You must be very little. Or standing in a hole." Tony isn't really used to people appearing at his bedside, but she's reasonably pretty, somewhere around twenty-five, and is smiling, so he's willing to not mind even though his head and his stomach are ruling out any gestures of gallantry.

She laughs. "You're on the roof." She shakes her head and starts walking away. She's carrying a basket of eggs, which strikes Tony as really interesting for absolutely no reason at all. He closes his eyes against the sun. A few minutes later, Tony hears footsteps, heavier than the woman's, and turns to look over the edge of the roof again. He's just noticed that the reason it's so prickly is that it's covered in straw. Also very interesting. How do you make grass waterproof?

There's a man looking up at him. He's not smiling, but he's not frowning, either. "Would you be after climbing down now?" Tony appreciates that the man isn't shouting. He really does. "Or have you a mind to nest up there?"

Tony sits up and looks around. "I'm not actually sure how I got up here."

"Eh. Americans." The man walks off and returns with a ladder. He leans it up against the roof. "Come on down, lad."

The ladder is a little wobbly, and so is Tony, but he makes it to the ground. From this angle, he sees that the man isn't much taller than him, but has broad shoulders and well-defined muscle in his arms, not like a weight-lifter or body-builder, but like a man accustomed to heavy work. "After breakfast, I'll take you to town in the pony cart."

"To town?" Tony looks around. There's the house, and a couple other buildings, fields growing... something... stone walls and hedges dividing areas that look pretty much identical to him, some trees... no town, not even a hint of one. "Huh. Wonder how I got here." He looks up at the roof. "And how I didn't break my neck."

"God protects drunks and fools." The man suddenly smiles at Tony. "Would you be wanting a bit of the creature?"

"This isn't anything to do with sheep, is it? Because really... no matter what you've heard about Americans..."

The man laughs and smacks Tony on the back with one hand, staggering him. "A drink, bucko, a drink!"

***

"Da, are you going to take Tony into town, or are you not?"

"Oh, Maire, tis rude to be rushing a guest from the hearth! Have you no hospitality, woman?"

Tony nods. "Aengus hasn't finished telling me the story about ...the brindled cow?" Tony has another swallow from his cup. "It's very, very... fascin...interesting."

Maire picks up a broom. "Out! If you must tell tales, do it outside! I've work to do."

Aengus grabs Tony's arm. "Never argue with an armed woman."

Tony nods solemnly. He and Aengus go outside, walking very, very steadily. At least Aengus is steady. Tony's feet are wandering a bit from side to side. 

"I'll put the pony to the cart. We can talk while we ride," Aengus says. He deposits Tony on a wooden bench in front of a building that smells of hay and pony. Tony knows what pony smells like. He had one when he was five. Cornflake was nice. He particularly liked how much taller he was on ponyback.

Aengus leads out the pony, which Tony thinks looks a whole lot more like a horse. Aengus frowns and bends down to pick up one of the horse's front legs and look at its foot. "Thrown another shoe." He stands up and shouts, "Maire! Come and pump the bellows! I have to make another shoe for this dratted beast."

From inside the house, Maire shouts back, "I'm kneading the dough, da!"

Aengus frowns and looks at Tony. "Let me see your hands, lad."

Tony turns up his palms. Aengus examines his hands and nods. "Not so soft as all that, you'll do. Come, lad." He ties the 'pony' to the bench and walks off to a small open shed not too far from the house.

Tony goes along out of curiosity. He's never seen anyone make a horseshoe. He pumps the bellows and watches Aengus. It's hot, noisy, and the smell makes his nose tickle. Pumping the bellows is harder than he thought. "I didn't think... anyone... still did this by hand."

Aengus turns the iron and holds it against the anvil, hitting it in a measured rhythm. "No one does." He grins at Tony. "It's a dying art. But so long as I have the strength in my arms, why should I not have the pleasure of making the iron do my will?"

Tony understands that. "I like making things." Tony watches as Aengus tests the hot iron on the pony's insensitive hoof, then returns it to the fire, shaping and testing until it's perfect and he dips the shoe in a barrel of water to harden it. "What else can you make?" Tony asks as Aengus gathers a handful of nails.

"Oh, barrel staves, gates, fancy work... I've done it all. The flower baskets at the train station are mine."

Tony remembers them. The scrollwork baskets had an elegant delicacy for iron. "I wish I could do that."

"Not much call for it in America, surely?" Aengus gets the pony's leg up and holds it against his knee while he nails the new shoe in place.

"No. But... my father... he designed things to be made by machines. I know how to do that, and I can build things with the help of machines, but this...I want to know how to do this. I want to, very much."

Aengus laughs. "It's a pity you're not a local lad. I'd take you on as apprentice, surely I would."

Tony looks at the forge, still glowing orange. It's beautiful in an uncompromising way. In a way that has nothing to do with his father, or anything he ever did trying to please him. "I could be a local lad. I could." Tony has no idea what the laws are for things like this, but Obadiah can find out, can make it happen. 

"Don't be daft. It'd take a year to teach you all the things I know."

Tony looks at Aengus. "I'd give you that year. I wasn't going to do anything useful with it. I was just going to go around the world. I didn't have any real plans."

Aengus looks at Tony. "Running away, lad?"

"Or running toward. It's the same thing."

Aengus nods and holds out his hand. "Aye, then."

Tony smiles and takes Aengus's hand. Aengus squeezes. Tony winces.

"And remember, lad, apprentices keep their hands off my daughter."

**Author's Note:**

> Pub laws have changed since this time.


End file.
